


Ambrosia

by Fourleaves_Clover



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Florist Sakazuki, Fluff, Immortal Borsalino, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lawyer Borsalino, M/M, OPAdmiralsWeek2020, Romance, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26475478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fourleaves_Clover/pseuds/Fourleaves_Clover
Summary: Day 2:Time || Modern AUThe puddle in front of the quant store sparkled like garnet and sunstone, while the raindrops around the shop turned a beautiful shade of yellow like gold teardrops falling from the sky. It was the kind of vibrant colors that had been missing in his life for so long.Borsalino’s feet moved without his command.Part of One Piece's Admirals Week 2020
Relationships: Akainu | Sakazuki/Kizaru | Borsalino
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15
Collections: One Piece Admirals Week 2020





	Ambrosia

**Author's Note:**

> Special thank yous to Redpen1992 for helping me beta this mess of a story! Shout out to the rest of the Discord server for cheering me when I feel down and for standing by my side when I'm stressed! This story is set in a world similar to ours but not ours. You can imagine One Piece world, but with a mixture of the modern vibe our world has. I hope you enjoy the read!!!

In this century, Borsalino was a lawyer, famous and wealthy. He lived a comfortable life amidst a bustling city where humanity couldn’t seem to take a break, too busy going from one place to another like their lives were too short to waste on a few seconds of slowing down and enjoying what this world had to offer. In this life, his fighting skills were left to rot, and he took up the pen as both his shield and sword to fight battles against men and women who also chose the same path as him.

Borsalino eyed the dreadful gray sky, opening the whimsical, brightly colored umbrella and held it up over his head just in time to avoid the first raindrop. His frame, slim and tall, stood out starkly among the group of people waiting for the traffic light to cross the street, bright yellow in a sea of black, hand lacking any mobile devices. Oh, humanity… After centuries, people had been reduced to obeying whether to walk or to stop by specific colored light.

Absently, Borsalino wondered if that made him a God among the people…

He smiled ruefully, pushing the thought aside. He was many things, but a God least of all. He was just a man, a man who had lived for much too long and seen too much.

But… just a man.

Borsalino crossed the white markers on the asphalt surface, watching how the rain was turning it from a pewter gray to a darker shade. His steps were light but slow, even when people shoved against each other in an effort to cross the road faster, they kept a respectful distance from him. It was as if they could sense that he wasn’t quite of this era, an existence so right and so wrong shoved together in a confusing mix that made people stray away from his path. Like time was and wasn’t an illusion, Borsalino was and wasn’t all at once.

As soon as his foot stepped on the pavement on the other side, the light switched again and the horde of cars honked and raced against one another, trying to make it before they were stopped by light once again. Why the hurry? Why would one want to rush through life when life was already too short to spend effort on things that didn’t matter in the end?

Borsalino smiled, a secretive tilt of his lips that spoke of wisdom beyond any current living soul in this world. He hummed under his breath. The tenor of his voice was hoarse, the once perfect pitch now a remnant of the past.

Clouds altered, oceans rose, mountains shrunk, lands connected and parted. All things changed, although the truth was: all remained the same. For him, millenniums had passed. And in that time, he had learned to pick up the similarities in the differences. He bowed his head when soldiers marched by, and watched as history repeated itself over and over again. It was as if life was too short and humanity couldn’t keep the lessons they learned from generations before. It was a sad state of affair. Life was so short, and so sad. Every soul was a tragedy.

The device on his body vibrated and let out an obnoxious sound, loud and _grating_. He looked at his watch, tapping the glass surface curiously but the ringing didn’t stop. If anything else, it got even louder, more urgent than before. “Hello?” Borsalino tried, tilting his head. “Hello~o?” he called, and tried to listen but there was no response. Strange. Which century was it? How did people communicate nowadays? The days where people sent messages via carrier pigeons were long past, that much Borsalino did know. So what was wrong with his transponder snail?

A hand reached over and tapped him lightly on his elbow. He turned around with an elegant arch of his brow, lips pursed in a curious ‘oh?’ The young woman who had approached him gave him an awkward smile and gestured toward his pocket. “I think your phone is ringing, sir,” she said kindly, with sweetness that Borsalino vaguely associated with a good heart. The device kept on ringing, making the lady even more flustered.

Borsalino stared for a moment before his mind connected the words and he slipped a hand into his pocket to retrieve the thin rectangular, its shape so vastly different from the once living snail and was far less alive than the carrier pigeon. “Ah, I forgot,” he chuckled unapologetically, watching the name on the display. A dramatic sigh escaped his lips in a heavy gush of air. It was no one important. Just another association at work. He inclined his head in gratitude at the kind-hearted woman before pushing the button on the left side. “Yes~s?” Borsalino answered easily, walking away.

“Where are you, sir?! I called you tons of times! Did you--” Borsalino winced at the loud voice, pulling the phone far away from his ear. The person on the other side continued to yell, but their voice was muted enough that Borsalino couldn’t hear it anymore. Uh oh. He made his secretary angry, it would seem. Whoops, his bad~ She was just so sca~ary at times.

Finally, the shrieking seemed to die down enough for Borsalino to put the phone near his ear again. “Ye~es?” he smiled pleasantly, resting the handle of the umbrella on his shoulder as he walked, utterly unperturbed by the people hurriedly walking by.

His secretary let out a gutsy sigh, and Borsalino could imagine her pinching the bridge of her nose tiredly. “You mixed up your watch with your phone again, didn’t you?” she asked in exasperation. Borsalino smiled but didn’t confirm nor deny her guess. There was no need to be so tense. “Honestly, if you hadn’t picked up after that call, I would have called your ex-wife just to make sure that you weren’t with her,” Borsalino frowned, letting out a displeased sound. His ex-wife was still a sore topic to broach. The divorce had been messy and Borsalino hadn’t appreciated the attention he gained from it. It had been a bad kind, the kind of curiosity that made people worse. The pair of them were simply far too different, and Borsalino’s affection toward her had faded. Alas, love was always difficult, and the ending of it even more so.

“Did you call me for something?” Borsalino asked, not wanting to remember that unpleasant affair anymore. The topic of love tended to make him melancholic, and Borsalino would be reminded that there was someone else, another someone out there that he was _supposed_ to find, but one that he _purposely_ wasn’t looking for. Everyone moved on, and _life_ moved on. It was time to let go and find a different love.

Detecting the edge in Borsalino’s voice, the secretary’s voice took on a much more respectful tone. He wasn’t to be messed with, especially when he was angry. He was a man that used words to fight, and when it came to that kind of people, making them angry was never wise. “I-I just want to remind you that you have an appointment after lunch, sir, with Mr. Miller to talk about the case. I already have all the files ready for you…” Borsalino hummed, ruffled feathers soothed as he picked up the pace again, listening to his busy schedule with a forced smile. Wealth and fame made his life easier, but so much harder at the same time.

Borsalino remembered once upon a time, he was nobody, a faceless individual that didn’t understand humanity’s beauty and ugliness yet, naïve and idealistic, trudging through life. That was such a long time ago, so long that using the current date system seemed meaningless. What modern people now used to count the time was no longer applicable to how he once did it. It would take too much effort to calculate the exact year and date.

Since the beginning of time, humanity had been obsessed with time, trying to measure and quantify it like it was a physical thing. They did their best to put a meaning to time, enforcing their ideology on something that was already so subjective. Yet none of them truly understood the true meaning of the passing of time. He did, though. Sometimes Borsalino wondered if his understanding was a curse or a blessing.

What he recalled was an ancient time where people danced together around the fire, where famine seemed far away, where princes danced with cowboys and knights galloping through the vast land, where princesses rode bears to battles and languages were spoken like songs. Borsalino had lived through many lives, taking up all sorts of titles and picking up on all sorts of languages, but there was something very special about the first. 

Perhaps that was because in his first life, things were still beautiful.

Head in the clouds, Borsalino took the wrong turn, nostalgia led his feet instead of rationality. The woman in the device was still rambling on, but Borsalino could no longer understand the words, strings of meaningless sounds so vastly different from the songs he once sang with perfect pitch. All he could do was to hum and hope that the meaning got through to her. Maybe she had yet forgotten the meaning of melodies. She seemed pleased with it and continued on while Borsalino watched the rain get heavier. The once colorful world was now so gray, and Borsalino knew that he could evoke the light hidden deep within himself, to command it to burst forth, but in this nowadays world, such was not allowed. Now, he played the part of a commoner without power, keeping his ability hidden behind lock and keys. Maybe that was why Borsalino always saw the world in such a gray, bleak shade.

Weren’t colors just light?

Strolling down the sidewalk, Borsalino paused when he saw something from the corner of his eyes. He turned, catching sight of inviting light reflecting from glass windows. It was a sweet yellow, with hints of orange that made it seem warm, like the light one saw peering through the window in a snowy Christmas night, or the soothing heat of a fireplace, the kindness of a tight hug. It reflected on the walls outside, tiptoeing carefully on the stone tiles like a shy maiden. Even the cold, heavy rain couldn’t dim it. The puddle in front of the quant store sparkled like garnet and sunstone, while the raindrops around the shop turned a beautiful shade of yellow like gold teardrops falling from the sky. It was the kind of vibrant colors that had been missing in his life for so long.

Borsalino’s feet moved without his command.

He approached carefully, stopping just shy of the light’s range. His eyes took in the shop, small but welcoming, overflowing with flowers of all kinds. The dark colored sunshade protected the flower buckets beneath it from the rain, creating a constant drip of gold teardrops. There were pots of plants near the opened door like someone was in a hurry to move them in before the rain could hurt the beautiful flowers. They were well-cared for, blooming bright and sweet. They reminded Borsalino of spring fields from the long past, untarnished by human’s interference.

Borsalino studied the name of the shop, written in simple blocky font on worn wood. ‘Dahlia’, it said. A smile graced his lips at the word: Kindness, inner strength and dignity. Maybe he should buy something from it, just as a way to give back something to the shop that gave his life some colors.

There were movements inside the shop, and Borsalino’s trained eyes followed immediately, curiosity winning the war inside him. He wanted to know what kind of owner this flower shop had.

The figure turned around, carrying a bucket of roses in his arms.

At once, the remaining air left Borsalino’s lungs.

No… That _couldn’t_ be-

Dimly, Borsalino realized that his grip had slackened. The yellow umbrella had fallen to the ground, bouncing and rolling gracelessly before stopping just a few steps away from him. His knees got weak. His lungs weren’t working properly. Each breath he drew in was a choked gasp, and each exhale made his chest ache something awful. No. No. He hadn’t been searching for _him_ \- Borsalino had been trying so _hard_ to ignore his potential existence and move on with life. Why was he _here_? Why was he inside that flower shop? So vibrant and lively and inviting?!

At once, reality slammed against him with the force of a sledgehammer, ending his melancholic musing by reminding him _all_ at once that it was there. Cars honked. People laughed. Phones rung. Words that were meaningless just moments before were meaningful all of a sudden. English! He spoke English and he was listening to a schedule. “Cancel my schedule,” Borsalino told his secretary firmly. “Cancel all the appointments. I’m taking today off.”

He ended the call before he even heard an answer, shoving it into his pocket with trembling fingers. There was a cry in his throat that he had to shove down so it wouldn’t escape. It sounded something like ‘My King’, and it sounded like ‘My Fleet Admiral’, and it sounded a lot like ‘My Commander’… And it sounded a lot like all the titles that he once called the other, but he didn’t know what to say, and the realization that the other wouldn’t even understand what the titles meant choked him up even further. In the end, Borsalino could only let out a strangled noise, pained and broken.

Borsalino realized just too late that the noise he made was just a tad too loud, because the door to the flower shop flew open and when his knees hit the ground, too weak to support his weight, he was greeted with a face full of red fur. “Pepper, no!” a voice, low, gruff and so familiar it made Borsalino’s chest tightened even further. “Where are you going? It’s raining, come back inside before you get wet!” there was some faint cursing before the dog was pulled back, and Borsalino blinked dumbly at the eager face of a Golden Retriever staring back down at him, tongue lolling happily. “Did you tackle someone down?” The other asked, crouching in front of Borsalino, his eyebrows furrowed together, expression drawn tight. It was a look that Borsalino was intimately familiar with. He was concerned.

Worried for Borsalino’s well being.

Borsalino couldn’t _breathe_.

“Hey, are you alright?” the man asked gruffly, hesitating for a moment before he laid a hand on Borsalino’s shoulder. The touch was warm. Solid. Grounding. Borsalino sucked in a deep breath, trying to say something, anything, but his tongue felt frozen and drunk. He couldn’t get it to work. “Shit, he’s in shock,” Borsalino dimly listened to the muttered words, and the other fumbled in his pocket, letting out another frustrated curse when he realized that he didn’t have his phone with him. He stood up, looking like he was about to leave Borsalino.

No. No… _No_.

_I’m sorry I didn’t look for you. You are my colors. Don’t_ leave _-_

Borsalino’s hand shot out to grab the other’s apron, dirty with soil. He clung to it stubbornly, too scared that if he let go, he would disappear. The other, his King, his Fleet Admiral, his Commander, his _lover_ \- paused mid-step. The expression on his face softened. “I won’t leave you. But you have to stand up. You’re freezing. Let’s get inside where it’s dry, at least,” he said quietly, retrieved Borsalino’s umbrella and closed it, pulling Borsalino up with him. The dog, Pepper, wasn’t it? Followed their steps closely, keeping an eye on the pair. It nudged the door open and slipped in and the pair followed suit, he entered the shop with the store owner - not just some owner, someone Borsalino had loved for _millennia_ and would continue to love until he ceased to exist- closing the door behind them. He eased Borsalino on a stool, subtly shaking the fingers off of his apron. “How are you feeling?”

Borsalino opened his mouth but closed it with a snap when the sound that left him wasn’t quite human. He tried again, eyes stinging but knowing that the other couldn’t recognize him, and making a fool out of himself was the fastest way to get him on his guard. “I have had… better days,” Borsalino finally said. There weren’t really better days though. They were just days that Borsalino wasn’t feeling everything at once, too overwhelmed to even breathe normally. He shakily reached for the packet of cigarettes in his jacket, taking one out. It took him five tries to get the lighter to work, and when he placed it between his lips, he took in such a deep drag it was probably unhealthy. Finally, Borsalino lowered the cigarette, crushing it between middle and index fingers. “I’m sorry, I just remembered something,” he apologized, forcing a smile on his lips that he didn’t quite feel. “I’m Borsalino. Thank you for helping me back then,” he said, holding up his hand. “Nice to meet you,” ‘again’, Borsalino wanted to add, but he bit down on the urge. He had to remind himself that his lover had no knowledge of who he was. He wasn’t going to make an ass out of himself and chase him away when he just met him again.

The shop owner gave the hand an unreadable look. He removed the garden glove he had on him and took it, shaking firmly. Borsalino marveled at how warm the other was. It had been so long since he was touched by such a warm hand. He paused, noticing all the scars that ran down the other’s arm… Why was he so scarred? Wasn’t he a florist in this life?

“I’m Sakazuki,” he introduced himself, studying Borsalino’s pale face critically. “You’re welcome. Don’t worry about it. I know what it’s like to remember,” he said gruffly. Borsalino tried not to perk up. What? What did that mean? He couldn’t mean he _remembered_ , right? That was impossible. Before Borsalino could ask for clarification, Sakazuki already dropped the handshake which had lingered way past the acceptable time for introduction. He moved away, and without the flowers blocking the other’s lower half, Borsalino finally saw it, a limp, painfully obvious and probably aching with the way Sakazuki gingerly favored his other leg. With the scars, it didn’t paint a very promising picture in Borsalino’s mind. Sakazuki said nothing though, trudging through the mess of pots and buckets of flowers on the floor with familiar ease while his dog followed his every step, looking out for him. He finally reached a small table and poured a cup of coffee before slowly making his way back toward Borsalino, handing it to him. He sat down on a chair, rubbing his knee absently. “Here. After I get flashbacks, I can always use some water. Right now, coffee’s all I’ve got,” Sakazuki said silently, studying Borsalino’s face.

Oh.

Oh, so he didn’t remember then.

Borsalino tried not to let the disappointment on his face show, knowing how difficult it was for Sakazuki to share anything about himself at all. Borsalino took another drag of his cigarette, before taking a sip of the coffee, dark, just the way Sakazuki always preferred most of his drinks. He tried not to hungrily stare, but in the end, he couldn’t resist it. His eyes drank in the sight of this version of his lover like a starving man being fed food, like drought soil getting rains after years of no water.

The jawline was still the same, so were his intense eyes, and the serious tilt of his lips. Those were always the same, and that was how Borsalino could always recognize him regardless of genders, skin tones or hair colors. In this life, it was yet another short hair style that Borsalino had grown to love. His hair was jet black, and his skin a healthy tan. He looked absolutely stunning, but maybe Borsalino was just biased. It was the eyes though. Sakazuki had eyes that spoke.

In the first life, before Borsalino even ate his Devil Fruit, Sakazuki was his King and he was his faithful general. He remembered his last meal, apples on his tongue and ambrosia sliding down his throat. A thread of pleasure before they went to war. Before they left, Borsalino had gotten down on one knee, and declared his loyalty, his devotion and his love to the one man he adored above all, knowing fully well that he would be breaking all the taboos that came with it. A King and his servant. Two men. They were never meant to be when his King was busy fighting to protect the border of his country, keeping their people safe, especially when his consorts were carrying heirs that belonged to him. They were never meant to be, and yet Borsalino still made the promise anyway.

“To you, I give everything I am. My sword is yours, in victory and defeat, from this day until my last day.”

Borsalino often thought back on that vow, and entertained the idea that maybe it all started there. He had promised his entire being to his King, so for the rest of his days, he would not fall for anyone else as deeply as he fell for him, the strength of his conviction, the depth of his kindness, the grace and dignity that he embraced as easily as breathing. Borsalino also remembered that last night, tangled on their bed sheet, desperate to be together for the first and maybe the last time because they both knew the chance of either dying on the battlefield was much too great.

When Borsalino had been sated, silky sheets draped over his waist, his King had looked at him long and hard, and he went to retrieve something. That something turned out to be a fruit with strange markings across it, looking like a banana but not quite right. “Beloved,” his King had whispered in his ear, voice still ruined from their night. “It’s my inheritance, but I want to give it to you. I cannot promise you my full devotion. I cannot promise you I’ll put you above my country. I cannot promise you that we can walk together under the sun the way couples do. So, have this. I cannot promise you anything that’s bigger than myself, so I will give you something that rightfully belongs to me instead. What I own is sadly little, the gold and the jewels I want to dress you in belong to the people, not me. I’m supposed to eat this though, so, take a bite in my place.”

Borsalino took a bite, because what other choice did he have when he heard something like that? He hadn’t known the existence of Devil Fruits back then, a deal with the Devil to trade one thing for the other, to gain a power of which mankind was never meant to wield. However, to defy the laws of nature meant to be rejected by Mother Nature herself. For eternity and beyond, Borsalino’s existence would always be an outlier to what the universe had intended to create. Sometimes, in his most cynical moments, Borsalino wondered if his King had known and cursed him for daring to love.

It didn’t matter what his King’s intention had been, to gift or to curse Borsalino, the revolting taste of warm, lingering bitterness mixed with the salty tears running down his face would forever etch itself onto Borsalino’s soul.

It was the worst fruit that Borsalino had ever eaten in his life.

They shared a kiss after, full of bittersweet regrets neither dared to name. Borsalino remembered blinking away the tears and with a tightened grip, crumbling the fruit to dust; its remains trickled like forbidden wine.

In their first life, neither he nor his King had died after that battle, and their secret relationship went on for a lot longer. Borsalino had never been happier. It might be a secret, but it was _their_ secret and he treasured it with careful hands. His King was never completely his though, and while it pained Borsalino, he understood why. He watched his back and kept him safe with his new power, and let his King lead the life he wanted to lead, to battle against enemies that wanted to topple their kingdom’s ruling.

They lost.

The both of them had known it when they went into war one last time, going down in flames instead of surrendering like cowards. Borsalino had been ready to accept that. It was fine this way. He wanted to go down with his King, as his right hand man, in a battle that they wouldn’t win but would be talked about for centuries to come. How could there be a better way to die than to be with the one you loved for a cause so much bigger than one’s self?

His King had died before him and that was also the first time Borsalino experienced the absolute anguish of seeing the person he loved the most let out his last breath and died in his arms. He wished he could say it was the last time but it wasn’t. His King died with bitterness and peace, and Borsalino remembered clinging to him while the enemy ended him, too. The pain that he felt when the sword pierced his chest was not even the slightest bit comparable to the pain of watching his King’s closed eyes and still chest.

It wasn’t until much later that Borsalino discovered his new power and the price that came with it. He wasn’t a God, but he wasn’t quite human either. Calling him the light would be a mistake, too. He was something in between. He only _belonged_ to the light and was gifted with its unique properties. By gaining his power, Borsalino became a shade of color within that endless spectrum of light. He was a shade of light given sentimentality, like how humankind was the universe experiencing itself. He could be killed. His heart could stop beating. His lungs could stop working.

He just couldn’t _stay_ dead.

Like clockwork, after he died, he would return to life, younger, perhaps, like the flickering light of a candle trying to become a roaring bonfire, with the full memories of what he had experienced before.

Borsalino didn’t know when he would die for real, perhaps one day, when the light of this universe had turned off, on the day the last star died.

He wasn’t born when the first star burst to life, but he would die when the last star was gone, blinked out of existence, like he was never there.

It was a lonely realization to come to.

When he woke up, the war was still fresh in his mind on a barren landscape that he didn’t recognize. He came to discover a world that banned the knowledge of the past, and the enemies he fought against were now on top of the world, sitting on the throne of their lost kingdom like it was rightfully theirs. Bitterness welled up inside Borsalino like poison.

They didn’t even get to keep their tale.

Their enemies didn’t even let them keep their memories.

What a screwed up world.

Wandering, lost and alone, Borsalino hadn’t known what to do with his life for the longest time. His King no longer existed, and the vast ocean was divided and named by words he wasn't used to speaking. Melodies were replaced by a single harsh language that Borsalino took forever to understand, and the anger he felt was like nothing he had ever felt before. Why? Why did they hide history?! How could they hide all the souls that had fallen down for their causes? History was written by the victors, that much Borsalino had already known. But they didn’t write it at all. They _erased_ it.

Borsalino felt like he hadn’t existed in that first life. After all, there was nothing that spoke about him or his King. The world had forgotten their names. He might have come back to life, but he had died the moment he was forgotten.

Then, as fate would have it. They met again. An angry, bitter and wounded soul and a boy who looked so much like his King that Borsalino had lost it, running up to him and calling for his King only to be rejected and pushed away like he was crazy. It took him very little time to realize that the boy he met was no longer his King, and the angry scowl that he aimed at Borsalino held no recognition whatsoever. The warmth that those eyes once held toward him was long gone, lost in the flow of time. Borsalino felt like he died all over again, of a broken heart.

Selfishly, Borsalino wanted to be with the person who shared the same face of his past lover. Perhaps it was a masochistic urge to hurt himself even more, or maybe because he had no other place to turn to. They introduced themselves to each other, and tentatively began a fragile, precious friendship. The boy with his King’s face wasn’t his King, had no connection whatsoever with him, but he shared his soul. He shared the same stubborn frown, the same intense eyes and the same unwavering conviction that sent chills down Borsalino’s spine. In that life, they were no longer King and general, but slaves taken from a young age to be put to good use, a punching bag in time of boredom or a servant when they were needed. His friend, his King, had a burning hatred toward their cruel masters, and by his hand, he grabbed a silver butter knife and killed one.

They rioted. The castle burned.

Borsalino’s power, which had steadily returned to him, had a chance to be put into good use. They fought side by side, in a different dance than the one they had before. Not a general and his King, no, but a friendship forged from hardship and fire all the same. They kissed on the hill, far away from the roaring fire, and Borsalino felt _alive_ for the first time in years. He could see so much of his old lover in his new one. The kindness as he carefully tended to the wounded, the determination to take down the royal family so that they could free others. He was a man with a mission, and Borsalino knew better than to step in the way. He fought harder than before, with a desperation born out of the knowledge that it hurt too much to be the one who died last. He couldn’t let his lover be harmed.

Ah, how fate despised those that defied it.

Of course his friend would die before him, for a cause yet again. Borsalino felt dread fill every fiber of his being when they won the war but there was no sign of him anywhere. Then he found him, or rather, his body. A heap on the ground in a pool of his own blood, his last cry still lingered on his lips and his handsome face twisted in pain.

No. Not again.

Borsalino didn’t remember much after that. He remembered crying though, a keening wail that sounded more like a dying animal than a human being as he clung to him and cried, spitting curses at the Heaven for taking his happiness away again. What had Borsalino done to deserve this? Why did his lover have to die even when they had won the war? They won, didn’t they?!

Didn’t they?

In that life, Borsalino spent the rest of his life in battle, and eventually fell when that cursed government sent people to subdue the unruly slaves. He felt nothing as he physically died again. His emotions were dead the day his lover was gone and Borsalino knew he was only living the rest of his time because that was what his lover would have wanted him to do. It was meaningless. The sky had gone gray the day the other was gone. It was almost a relief when he was mercifully put down like a dying animal.

Then came the next life, Borsalino immediately set out to find him, only to find a woman with the same stubborn set of shoulders and angry pout instead.

Again, he fell.

Not because he knew it was his King he was staring at, but because she was a fiery existence that broke all the common rules about what a woman was supposed to be: soft, sweet, a child bearer. Borsalino’s weak heart beat madly against his ribcage when the serious warrior that handed him his ass single-handedly defeated every other warrior in the arena and took off her helmet to reveal dark skin, sharp jawline, dark eyes and a thunderous expression. “Underestimate me again and I’ll kill you all next time, got it?” she asked, holding a sword to Borsalino’s neck and walked off, leaving him stunned on the ground, dazed and awestruck. She was royalty, but she trained just as hard as any common soldier, and she stood on equal ground with men as she contributed her opinions on strategies. She made Borsalino go weak at the knees like _he_ was the shy wallflower instead. They were going to war. She volunteered to be on the front line.

Borsalino was starting to pick up a _pattern_.

That life and then every life that followed it, history repeated itself over and over again, and with each rerun, Borsalino’s heart broke just a little bit more. His lover, regardless of roles or genders, was always busy fighting for something.

A King protecting his kingdom. A slave breaking free. A princess going to war. A Fleet Admiral vowing to fight for Justice… Borsalino never purposely fell for that beautiful soul, but he always did, in the end, regardless of how jaded he was, and how hardened his heart had become. He didn’t understand why.

All he could see was a soul that burned like fire, and Borsalino was like a moth to a flame. 

Borsalino learned to both love and hate it. He loved the strength in his lover’s conviction, how steadfast his King’s beliefs were, regardless of the topics. However, his lover always died fighting for it, always before Borsalino no matter how hard he tried to prevent the tragedy from repeating. In his darkest moments without the other by his side, Borsalino turned bitter and angry. Why? Why did his King always have to fight for _something_?!

Why couldn’t he ever fight for _Borsalino_?

Life was so unfair.

The latest life was particularly difficult. They were soldiers on the battlefield. Their relationship was scrutinized carefully by everyone else, their sexuality looked down by society and their time together was limited. His lover had wanted to put his mission above it all, when didn’t he? This time Borsalino had tried to stop him from going on a suicidal mission that would surely end in his death for a cause so wrong, they had fought and broke up. Borsalino couldn’t believe that the other had been so foolishly _blind_. After centuries of finding him only to watch him die again and again in an endless loop. 

That had been the last straw.

When Borsalino died that time, also in a suicidal mission, he woke up and vowed to stop looking for his King. It was time to move on. Even if for some reason, his King always fell for Borsalino, and he always fell for that fiery soul, they were clearly not meant to have any future together.

Borsalino was just so tired of watching him die and having his heart broken every single time. There were only so many times where a heart could be glued back together. Borsalino just couldn’t do it anymore.

So in this life, he picked a path that was different from any other life, bypassing signs and going the opposite direction where wars happened. He dated. He got married. He got a house with white picket fence and tried to be as normal as he could be. Life passed by, dull and meaningless, filled with stretches of silence when he didn’t know what to do with himself. He threw himself in work, but then his wife would demand attention. He just couldn’t appreciate her the way she wanted him to. She was beautiful, and smart, a woman that he knew he was lucky to have, but it was as if all the colors had been sucked out of his life. He was left wandering without direction, melancholy and disillusioned.

How could he have anticipated that they would meet again when he least expected it?

Borsalino took another drag of his cigarette, hand still shaking badly. He let out a small hiss when the ember burned brushed against his finger, having lost too much time in his trip down the memory lane. An ashtray was extended toward his general direction and Borsalino accepted it gratefully, extinguishing the cigarette. He watched Sakazuki watch him carefully. “Feel free to sit there until you feel better,” he said. Sakazuki stood up and made his way outside, carrying the pots that he had left at the door inside the shop. Borsalino studied his silhouette, watching Sakazuki pick out a few dead leaves with big but gentle hands.

“Have you...” Borsalino swallowed and tried again. “Have you always been a florist?” he asked, unable to keep the question to himself. He felt _sick_ to the stomach with _jealousy_. His face flushed and his heart raced, making him sweat in his suddenly too tight suit.

_How_?

_Why_?

Every single life before this one, he had always chased after his lover, being forced to stand behind him as he took the front line and _fought_ . He never backed down, never ran away even when Borsalino _wished_ that he would. Every single time they met, it was amidst a conflict, or at least in the middle of a brewing war. Why wasn’t he on the front line this time? What was the difference?

This was the side of his lover that he had always wanted to show the world, and he had long given up hope that it could ever be achieved. This was the lover that he wanted, someone who could put the battle aside to enjoy a quiet moment. So why couldn’t he have it before? Why was it the only time Borsalino wasn’t looking for him, actively avoiding his presence, he was everything in Borsalino’s dreams?

Why was life so _unfair_?

Did _Borsalino_ do something wrong that would cause his King to never abandon the violent life he led?

Sakazuki’s hand paused, and Borsalino realized just a second too late that perhaps his question had been too invasive. After another beat, Sakazuki went back to picking up leaves, not looking at Borsalino. “No,” he said, putting the pot on the shelf. It was a begonia plant, the dark pink blooms stood out against green like the black justice on a white cloak fluttering in the wind. Borsalino’s heart raced at the answer, and he bit his tongue to stop asking for more. He had learned the ins and outs of him by now, the way he ticked, the way that he was never meant to be pushed. Another long moment dragged on before Borsalino was rewarded for his patience. “I’m a veteran,” Sakazuki said, guarded.

“Oh.”

Borsalino uttered lamely, tightened his grip around the now cold coffee cup. His jealousy vanished, only to be replaced by a curiosity that _burned_ . He went to _war_. And he stopped. Why did he stop? This was the first time ever Sakazuki didn’t die fighting but instead, he left the battlefield before it could rob him of his life.

Borsalino wanted to know.

The curiosity dulled for a moment when he saw the way Sakazuki walked, favoring his bad leg and patting the dog he owned absently once a while. Despair and guilt swelled up, and the lump in his throat was suddenly too big to swallow.

Sakazuki fought, got injured and Borsalino wasn’t _there_.

Sakazuki grunted noncommittally, moving the plants around his shop while Borsalino sat there, studying him. He desperately wanted to be a part of this man’s life, learning about the quiet soul that had left the battlefield behind to take up on a position that was meant to encourage life, not destroy it. It was a shade Borsalino long knew existed within him, but it was the first time he had seen it express outwardly. 

“I…” he gathered himself, putting on a smile that was more genuine than any other smiles he had worn ever since he began this life. He stood up, walking toward Sakazuki, holding the coffee cup in his hand. “I want to thank you,” he said, placing the coffee cup in the other’s hand. Their fingers touched, and Borsalino pretended not to notice the way Sakazuki’s eyes widened before guarded defensiveness made him close off his expression. ‘Thank you for not dying before I met you,’ he wanted to say, but he was afraid that was just too much too soon. “I want to buy a plant, too,” he said, jerking his face toward a small pot of gardenia sitting on a lonely shelf, the white bloom was still not opening fully. “Would that one be alright?”

Sakazuki broke the skin contact, taking the mug. “Yeah it’s no problem,” he muttered under his breath, placing it down. He went to take the gardenia, picking it up with both hands. “Do you need a card or bow to go with it?” Sakazuki asked gruffly, returning to the counter. The dog trailed behind him, looking happy to have something interesting going on.

“No, thank you, I just want to buy it for myself,” Borsalino said, smiling charmingly at Sakazuki. He brushed his fingers over the soft petals. Secret love was a fitting meaning for this flower. He supposed he should give it to Sakazuki, but he wanted to keep it. It would give him a reason to return here at least. As for now, Borsalino wanted to nurture it, keep it blooming just a little brighter. “I don’t know anything about plants or gardening though,” Borsalino continued regretfully and with an innocent expression on his face. “Do you mind if I return here so I can get some tips on how to take care of it? I don’t want it to die. I want it to grow big and strong.”

Sakazuki glanced at him before looking away, huffing out a breath. “Why would you be buying a plant if you didn’t even know how to take care of it?” he asked, exasperated and incredulous. “Fine. I suppose it’d be irresponsible of me to let it go without at least knowing that it’s in a good home,” Sakazuki said grumpily. “You can return. I’ll teach you how to take care of it. It’s not too difficult.”

Borsalino smiled, bright and cheery, a sun that banished the dark clouds away. “Great!” he said chirpily, practically beaming with joy. “Who knows? Maybe one day, if I’m a good enough student, you might give me an ambrosia as a gift! I promise I’ll study e~extra hard,” he said, unable to keep the playfulness away from his voice completely.

Sakazuki’s brows furrowed, looking like he missed the point completely. “Ambrosia is difficult to grow. It requires dryer climate and tender care. If you don’t even know how to care for plants yet, I can’t trust you with it,” he said with a frown. “Maybe one day. If you promise you’ll be responsible with what I give you, and you’re hardworking.”

Borsalino smiled. “Don’t worry, we have all the time in the world. I’m not in a hurry.”

He would never hurry, as long as he got to spend it with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Flower meaning:
> 
>   * Dahlia: Dignity, Kindness, Inner Strength
>   * Begonia: Caution, Danger, Individuality, Justice
>   * Gardenia: Secret love, Untold love, "you're lovely"
>   * Ambrosia: 
>     * In Greek Mythology, ambrosia is the wine given to Gods to grant them immortality
>     * As a flower, ambrosia means: returned love, "love is reciprocated"
> 



End file.
